


A Very Unlikely Pair

by genevieve_serdaigle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death Eaters, Definitely AU, M/M, Time Travel, can you believe i wrote 2970 something words of this, in my defence, it was a request, it's very AU, probably the weirdest thing i've ever written, seriously, smh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 13:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17829170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevieve_serdaigle/pseuds/genevieve_serdaigle
Summary: One minute it's 1996 and then suddenly it's 1943. Ernie finds himself at Hogwarts years before the First Wizarding War, and he'd very much like to go home. The only problem with that is firstly, he doesn't know how and secondly, he seems to have caught the attention of a handsome boy who's definitely a power-crazed psychopath. Still, things could be worse. Probably.





	A Very Unlikely Pair

Ernie Macmillan blinked, certain that the other boy must be mistaken.

“You’re having me on, aren’t you?”

                “What are you on about?” the other boy said crossly, scowling at him.

“No way is it 1943!”

                “I don’t know what you’re playing at, whoever you are but I sure as hell am not falling for it.”

The boy walked away, turning around only to give Ernie a cautious look before hurrying down the corridor.

 _1943_.

It couldn’t be. It was 1996, he was _certain_ of it, had written it down just this afternoon on his parchment for Potions.

He carried on through the winding corridor that he knew so well that looked different somehow. Was it the fact that everyone looked different? He couldn’t recognise anyone. Was there some sort of event he hadn’t been made aware of? Was this some sort of celebration where you take on someone else’s identity for the day? Oh wait, wasn’t that Malfoy?

Finally, someone he recognised! He’d been wandering around for a good half hour, trying to work out what it was that he was missing. Malfoy would set him straight, wouldn’t he? He was a right git and probably evil too but he wasn’t a liar. Besides, Ernie was panicking a little now and felt quite desperate.

Seeing no other option, Ernie sped after him.

“Malfoy!” he called out and a pale blonde head turned in the sea of students as Ernie rushed towards him. “What the hell is going on?”

                “Do I know you?” Malfoy drawled.

That voice - it sounded odd and upon studying Malfoy’s face, there was a slight difference in the expression, in the eyes that Malfoy usually didn’t seem to have. It made him look… interesting.

“Ernest Macmillan,” Ernie said bluntly. “Of course you know me, we have almost all of our NEWT classes together – we sit on the same bench in Potions!”

Malfoy looked at him blankly.

“You know, with that new teacher? Slughorn or something…”

                “ _New_ teacher? Potions? I think you must be confused –”

“I am confused!” Ernie groaned. “Just tell me what’s going on, it’s not funny anymore.”

                “I’m afraid I don’t understand, and I’m quite certain I’ve never met you before in my life.”

“What? We’ve been at Hogwarts together for five years, I know your family’s all skittish what with You-Know-Who lurking about but I’d have thought –”

                “You-Know-Who? I have no idea who you’re talking about –”

“Of course you do! Your whole family are Death Eaters!”

Malfoy, who had been about to turn around and leave this clearly delusional young man alone, froze and narrowed his eyes at the boy in front of him.

“Come with me,” he said at last, changing direction and walking towards the dungeons instead.

                “Why? I’m not –”

“You’re attracting attention and unless you’d like to find yourself somewhere particularly unpleasant, I’d cease your chattering if I were you.”

* * *

 

Ernie Macmillan was not one to lose his nerve.

He’d survived _Umbridge_ , for goodness sake. Yet somehow, being led down beneath the depths of the school where no reasonable student would ever go seemed to put him on edge. Just a little.

Against his better judgement, he’d decided to follow Malfoy, though to where he wasn’t sure.

The more he looked around him, the more Ernie was convinced that maybe it really was 1943. Malfoy spoke funny and all the students that they passed had their hair done up in styles that you only saw in black-and-white photographs in museums or retrospectives.

So did that mean, if he wasn’t in the present, but actually the past, that this wasn’t really Malfoy? Maybe it was Malfoy’s father, Lucius. Or perhaps his grandad?

Just thinking about it made Ernie’s head hurt – this boy looked no older than him, the idea that he could be a parent let alone a grandparent seemed ludicrous.

“Where are you taking me?” Ernie asked again.

                “I’m going to introduce you to some friends of mine.”

“Friends?” Ernie echoed.

They wound up in an old classroom, but it didn’t look dusty. Someone had clearly been using it for non-educational purposes, as the bookshelves remained untouched.

“What’s this about, Abraxas?” a lanky boy who had been leaning on the desk just behind the door walked towards them.

                “This is Ernest Macmillan. Macmillan, meet Nott,” he gestured to the lanky boy in front of them; “Avery, Lestrange, Rosier, Mulciber and Dolohov.”

“A Hufflepuff?” a dark-haired boy sneered at Ernie. “Tom’s not going to be happy.”

                “Excuse me –” Ernie began, ready to defend his House.

“Macmillan,” Malfoy interrupted him. “What did I tell you about keeping quiet? I think he could be valuable.”

                “How?”

A boy, though he looked more like a hardened criminal than a boy, with black hair crowded Ernie, narrowing his eyes, his hand reaching for his wand.

“Antonin,” a blonde boy – Avery, if Ernie remembered correctly – said in an undertone.

                “Who are you?” Dolohov demanded. “Why are you here?”

“I – I don’t know,” Ernie said, realising the truth of it. “This morning it was 1996 –”

                “1996?” Nott repeated, dubious.

“It was! I was in Potions with – with _his_ grandson,” Ernie waved at Malfoy, “or something like that and Slughorn, the new teacher was telling us to –”

                “He’s a crackpot,” Dolohov said decisively. “We should –”

“My grandson?” Abraxas frowned.

                “Yes, Draco Malfoy and – and I know your son, too,” Ernie said, looking at Nott carefully. “Theodore Nott, he’s very good at Potions.”

“D’you believe him?” Avery asked.

                “No,” Dolohov frowned. “I don’t.”

“I’m telling the truth! In 1996, Dumbledore’s headmaster –”

                “ _Dumbledore_? That old fool?” Rosier scoffed.

“That _old fool_ only defeated one of the darkest wizards of all time – Grindelwald, second only to L- L-Lord Voldemort himself!” Ernie managed to stutter out the name in his anger.

                “Grindelwald? Dumbledore’s not duelled anybody, least of all _Grindelwald_.”

“Well maybe not yet, but he will! He gets the Order of Merlin First Class for it!”

                “Lord Voldemort?” Nott murmured thoughtfully. “I think you may be right, Abraxas. I think he could be _very_ useful indeed.”

Abraxas nodded. “I’ll call Tom.”

“Are you sure?” Rosier said, twisting his hands together nervously. “I mean; he doesn’t like to be disturbed –”

                “I think this is important,” Abraxas said, at the door already.

“This is on your head,” Lestrange said. “I ain’t taking the fall for you.”

                “Fair enough,” Abraxas shrugged. “Watch him whilst I’m gone.”

Ernie backed away from the group of boys, suddenly feeling a shift in the dynamics of the room now that Malfoy was no longer there.

“So,” Rosier said, shifting his weight and then walking towards Ernie. “Who are you then? Really?”

                “I’m Ernest Macmillan, my friends call me Ernie…”

“If you really are from the future,” Lestrange said, though his tone suggested he didn’t think that was the slightest bit true; “Then what happens to me?”

                “You’re – you’re a Death Eater –”

“Who told you that?” Lestrange was smirking now, amused.

                “It’s in the paper – you went to Azkaban and – and you have sons, or you did – or you will –”

“Sons?”

                “Yeah, they’re Death Eaters too.”

“How’s it you know so much?”

                “Everyone knows. After the War –”

“What war?”

                “The First Wizarding War – Dumbledore lead the fight against- against You Know Who.”

“ _You Know Who_?” Lestrange mimicked. “Tell me, who is this man you fear so much, even though he’s dead now?”

                “Your leader,” Ernie said, tripping over his words as he pressed himself back against the wall. “And he’s not dead – not really. He’s back.”

“Our leader?” Lestrange spluttered, grabbing Ernie by his shirt. “And what d’you know about our leader?”

                “Put him down, Lestrange. Is that any way to treat a guest?”

A boy with hair as black as night and eyes as deep as the fathomless depths of the ocean stood in front of them. His presence commanded respect, his body simply oozed power and confidence but beneath his handsome face and seemingly charming disposition, there was something sinister lurking beneath that sent Ernie’s pulse racing.

This boy was dangerous, there was no doubt about that, this boy was probably evil if he was in with the Death Eaters – and they were Death Eaters, they’d confirmed as much themselves –

“My Lord,” Lestrange inclined his head to the boy and dropped Ernie unceremoniously in a heap on the floor.

                “My Lord, allow me to introduce you to Ernest Macmillan. Macmillan, meet Tom Riddle.”

* * *

 

The next hour was charged with tension and energy.

Tom Riddle had questions - lots of questions and his interrogation techniques were far from pleasant. He didn’t waste time with _Veritaserum_ as Umbridge had done. No, he had the skill to be creative. He was having _fun_ , Ernie realised with outrage. His own pain and humiliation was entertainment for this – this psychopathic megalomaniac which Tom Riddle certainly was.

It didn’t take long for Ernie to realise who exactly Tom Riddle was, or, to put it more accurately, who he would become.

Ernie prided himself for his resilience and for his loyalty to his cause – but even at the humble age of sixteen, Tom Riddle was no match for him.

Tom Riddle had almost burst the walls of Ernie’s mind, rooting around for what he wanted, almost driving Ernie to the point of madness – until he pressed upon a memory that was not any of his business. The thought of anyone, least of all this good-for-nothing tyrant seeing that was just unbearable.

Ernie saw bright, white rage and pushed Riddle out with all of his might. The DA had taught him something at least.

“No,” he said, breathless, slumped against the wall, sure that his head was about to implode. “Stay out of my head, Riddle.”

Tom Riddle’s mouth curled into a smile.

“I think I shall go where I please, thank you Macmillan.”

Ernie stumbled to his feet, the room was spinning and his vision was blurring.

“You’ve got what you want,” he pants. “Leave me alone.”

Tom Riddle only smirked.

“Sleep well, Macmillan.”

* * *

 

“… I don’t know why we’re wasting our time, he’s probably dead –”

                “No! I saw him twitch.”

“With rigor mortis,” the voice muttered.

                “Macmillan! Gave us a scare, you did.”

“Where am I?” Ernie said blearily. _Ow_ , he thought, feeling his head. Whatever was wrong, it fucking hurt.

                “On the floor.”

“Riddle got you,” that voice sounded far too happy for Ernie’s liking.

                “So I gathered. What now?”

“What do you mean?” Abraxas came into focus.

                “I can’t stay here! I have friends –”

There was a spluttering noise that sounded like disbelief.

“I need to get home. Somehow.”

He saw two heads turn to each other.

“Well, if you don’t want Dumbledore involved –”

                “– and you _really_ don’t, trust us –”

“Then you’re going to need Tom.”

Ernie closed his eyes.

* * *

 

A hesitant knock on the door drove Riddle away from his plans. He looked up irritably at the blonde haired boy in front of him.

“What do you want Macmillan?”

The room was dimly lit and drearily decorated. There was a table at which Tom sat, surrounded by books and parchment. Otherwise, the room was sparsely furnished, the only marks of its use being the scuff marks on the wall, a few splatters that might have been blood. Probably Ernie’s own blood.

Ernie stared at these distractedly, forcefully reminded of their training room last year, in the Room of Requirement. There had been scuff marks not unlike those ones then. He felt a twist in his gut – he missed his friends. He pulled himself together, determined to keep it together in front of Tom.

                “I need to get back to the year I came from. They told me you’re the guy to see.”

Tom sighed. “What makes you think I would do that?”

                “I don’t belong here; you know I don’t –”

“What’s to stop me simply killing you?”

Ernie froze.

Tom smiled.

“Don’t worry, Macmillan. I’m not quite tired of you yet.”

Ernie tried not sag in his relief.

“So you will help me?”

                “I never said that.”

“If you don’t, I’ll just go to Dumbledore –”

                “You shall do no such thing,” Tom said, eyes suddenly angry.

Ernie resisted the urge to take a step back.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Tom fired a curse from where he sat, throwing Ernie backwards.

“You will do as I say.”

Ernie scrambled for his wand and cast _reducto_ , just the way they’d practiced last year and it blew the stone it hit to dust, red sparks flying with its power.

“I am not one of your Death Eaters,” he says, chest rising and falling as the adrenaline rushed around his body. “You are not my master.”

Tom lifted his head from his book, eyeing the effect of Ernie’s outburst with poorly disguised interest. He turned to Ernie, an amused expression on his face.

“It would seem not.”

* * *

 

They worked through the night on the plans to transport Ernie back to 1996.

Since their discussion alone, in Tom’s private study, Tom hadn’t laid a finger on Ernie – not really. They duelled sometimes, Tom pushing, pushing, always pushing. Tom seemed fascinated and Ernie couldn’t deny the pull of someone so… so _exasperating_.

And Tom Riddle was certainly the most exasperating person he’d ever met – he was so particular about the most mundane of things: the way the curtains hung over the grimy window, the angle of the portraits on the wall, the placement of his books on his desk… They did share some things in common, however.

Ernie liked to be well-presented and for things to be tidy too, perhaps not to the same extent as Tom but he still held the belief that manners and good conduct were important, something that Tom appreciated.

There were still distinct differences between them, though.

First of all, Tom was evil.

He liked killing things for fun, especially living things. He also liked snakes. Ernie wasn’t fond of snakes. Tom also thought Muggles and Muggle-borns were scum and deserved death – Ernie strongly disagreed with this one and had told Tom so.

“Of course,” Tom had leered; “Your _boyfriend_ , Mr Finch-Fletchley –”

Ernie flushed red, “How dare you -?”

                “How dare _I_?” Tom was furious. “I’ve _seen_ the way he looks at you –”

“Yes, the way _he_ looks at _me_. I don’t- I don’t like him in that way –”

                “No? Perhaps you prefer Miss Abbott instead –”

“It’s none of your business, Riddle.”

Ernie was not in the mood for Riddle’s bigotry and probable homophobia.

Tom was _wrong_.

There was nothing bad about Hannah, nothing at all but he wasn’t into girls – but Tom didn’t have to know that.

Ernie exhaled. How was it that he still cared about judgement from someone like Tom Riddle, who was practically wired to hate everyone and everything?

“Is that what you think?” Tom appeared behind him.

                “Stay out of my head, Riddle,” Ernie rubbed at his eyes, tired in all the worst ways.

“I don’t hate everyone and everything,” Tom said quietly.

                “Don’t you? But you don’t love anything either, do you?”

“Love is a weakness –”

                “No, Tom. It’s not.”

“What did you just say?” Tom had an excited gleam in his eyes as he came closer. Ernie shuddered.

                “Love isn’t a weakness,” Ernie looked into Tom’s eyes defiantly, knowing – _praying_ \- that Tom wouldn’t hurt him.

“Not that part,” Tom said. “The part where you said my name.”

Then they were kissing and Ernie couldn’t think straight. All he could think was that Tom kissed like he meant it, and like everything with him, it was as beautifully perfect as it was cruel. He wasn’t sweet or romantic but demanding. Kissing him was almost _painful_. Ernie never wanted him to stop.

But then he remembered.

He was kissing a future Dark Lord.

He was kissing a murderer.

He was touching Lord Voldemort.

He pulled away.

“I – I can’t –”

Tom said nothing, he turned around and left without so much as a word.

* * *

 

Ernie did a lot of thinking that night.

Part of it was justification ( _It wasn’t_ really _the Dark Lord; it was only Tom Riddle – he wasn’t even of age yet. Besides, he might have messed up the timeline so that in this world, the Wars never happen – that was totally a thing that could happen, right?_ ) The other part was self-reproach – because he had kissed Lord fucking Voldemort – the man who had killed Harry’s parents, the man who would have killed Justin without a second thought, the man who was now causing very real terror in his world…

But he hadn’t done any of that yet, so was he really responsible for it?

There didn’t seem to be any obvious solution so Ernie settled for trying to get home as quickly as was possible.

Which meant talking to Tom. Again.

Yet it wasn’t as awkward as Ernie had imagined. Tom was cold and sharp and irritable, casting stray curses whenever he got frustrated – which seemed to be often, but they got stuff done.

Tom was trying to track down a Time-Turner at that present moment – because that seemed to be the most logical thing to do.

However, it was quickly becoming clear that getting back to 1996 would be no easy feat. In fact, it might just be impossible.

If he used the Time-Turner, there would be two of him in the same time, which didn’t sound good. Tom suggested they kill the other version of himself – but would that mean he’d die because the other version of Ernie _was_ Ernie?

He could try and possess his own body so that this version of himself inhabited that body.

Tom was adamant that they not involve Dumbledore but Ernie thought they might have to.

Anyway, the more they puzzled over the whole thing, the less sure Ernie was that he _wanted_ to go back.

His partner in getting out of here might just be the reason he wanted to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I have no idea what brought you here, I can't imagine Tom Riddle/Ernie Macmillan time travel fanfiction is something people usually think to type in. I know my opinion is entirely irrelevant (Barthes and the death of the author etc., etc.) but if you want to know how I think this would have turned out, then here's what I think:  
> I think Tom Riddle doesn't give a damn about Ernie, he's kind of interested in him in the way you're interested in an obscure but cute animal - like aw look they're so weak and helpless but sometimes they do things that are mildly interesting? Tom probably wants to go to the future to see his future self and help him take over the world or some shit like that, Ernie is definitely his last concern. Eventually, Tom gets bored by Ernie's presence and kills him. Idk, maybe for you it ends differently - if so, feel free to share your ideas, write it yourself, let's grow the following for Macmillan and Riddle (Maciddle? Ternie?), watch the whole fandom look on in bemusement as this pair takes over the internet.  
> Anyway, thanks for reading, hope you have a nice day :)


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